


The Distraction

by LoudMouthedJerseyNative



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudMouthedJerseyNative/pseuds/LoudMouthedJerseyNative
Summary: Dean, for the life of him, CANNOT concentrate in his English Class. I wonder why...?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written at one A.M. so it's very possible that this is a load of utter horse-shite.
> 
> No Beta... any and all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! - D

English Literature class. Dean had only signed up because he was told he had to take another subject. He'd always enjoyed _reading_ books, was good as it too, but the idea of _analysing_  and _over analysing_ and writing fucking _papers_ on them kinda made him want to run as far away as possible. It wasn't that he didn't have ideas, oh no, he had plenty of idea, so many, in fact, that he'd taken to carrying around a small A6 notebook with every book that interested him, and even with some that didn't, so he didn't lose track of all the questions and theories he had. The problem was that when he _vocalises_ these theories and questions, it made him feel so open that at one point, in freshmen year of high school, he legitimately thought he was having a heart attack and had to sit in the nurse's office for half an hour, breathing deeply and humming songs to calm himself down.

So, yeah, Dean didn't choose this class out of love.

It was ten minutes before his first lesson, and he was already freaking out. One of the great things about College, though, was the anonymity. He'd chose to go to Michigan State because he knew that no-one else from Lawrence was going there. No-one hear knew anything about him, and that was good. That was very good.

So, he tugged on his backpack straps, pushed his hood off of his head, and followed a few of the other students into the classroom.

He made sure to sit near the back. As far as he knew, it was quite a small class for such a big lecture hall, so there was no way all of the tables would be full. He also made sure _not_ to sit on the back row, as that automatically singles someone out to the Professor, and although he'd heard that Professor Chuck Shurley wasn't strict with his students, he knew that lectures were often interactive, and there was no way in hell he was going to make himself an easy target.

There were only about fifteen other students in the room at the moment. A group of five, three rows from the front; three people spotted around the room by themselves; and a large group of frat-boys over on the right-hand side, feet already up on the desks, laughing obnoxiously between themselves.

Dean took a seat on the left-hand side, two desks away from the wall, one desk away from the walkway, three rows from the back.

It didn't take long for the rest of the class to filter in. Most of the students kept to their own groups, and no-one came any closer to him than four seats away.

That was until the last student entered.

He had dark, unruly hair, matted to his head on the left-hand side; his eyes were icy blue and the brightest Dean had ever seen; and he was wearing a god-awful blue, orange, red and yellow striped sweater. He glanced around the room, his brow furrowed as he surveilled all of the empty seats. He automatically flinched away from the right-hand side of the room when the frat-boys laughed loudly at something one of them said. Making his way up the stairway on Dean's side of the room, he stumbled on one of the steps, his left shoe -- a ratty old sneaker which look two sizes too big and had a strip of grey duct tape over the toe -- came off, falling underneath the chair directly in front of Dean's. The guy obviously took that as a sign to sit there, and flopped down into the blue chair, his cheeks tinged pink from embarrassment. It didn't look as though anyone but Dean had noticed.

Another thing Dean couldn't help but notice was the way the guys hair flicked up at the ends, like he'd missed his last haircut and the dark tendrils has started to curl in a way his hair naturally would if it were long enough.

Dean wondered what it felt like. It looked thick, and product-less. Shiny, too, so it was probably soft, but from the way it was ruffled, Dean suspected it would be tough to run his fingers through.

As the guy ducked down to rifle through his bag -- a fucking _shoulder_ bag for fuck's sake -- the back of his sweater rode up, revealing a small sliver of gloriously tanned skin, hairless and blemish-free.

Dean sat further back in his seat, hands grasped tightly around his pen and notebook, when Professor Shurley stumbled his way into class, muttering his apologies for being late.

Dean hadn't noticed.

  
It was horrifying. Not only the class, but the fact his he couldn't go ten _damn_ seconds without his eyes dropping to the man in front of him. More than once had be been jolted out of reverie, finding himself thinking about that _gorgeous_ fucking man, and missing the last three minutes of the lesson. Ten minutes into the lesson when Chuck had started writing on the board at the front of the room, outline the year's syllabus, Mystery Man pulled out a pair of glasses. Hipster glasses. Although by the look of them, how battered they were, Dean reckoned they were probably originals. The heavy dark plastic across the top chipped and faded, and the thin metal edge covering the whole curved underside, dented and worn.

To sum it up: his first English class was worse than he'd ever imagined.

  
Sam called him that night, informing him of everything noteworthy that has happened in Lawrence that day before handing the phone of the his parents for a few minutes. Dean dutifully answered all of their questions before telling them he loved them and waiting for Sam to take the phone back.

"So," Sam said, flopping backwards on his bed if the squeak and the rush of air was anything to go by. "How was your day?" he asked, sounding like the obedient housewife he was made to be.

"Fine, Honey, how was yours?" Dean replied, idly scrubbing his towel over his head to dry his hair after the shower he took before calling home.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam huffed down the line.

"It was good," Dean said, laying back on his own mattress, glancing over at his roommate's empty side of the room. "Psych was good, met a chick there who said she'd teach me to use that fucking space-age laptop you guys got me before I left."

"Oh yeah? She hot?" Sam asked, his grin evident in his speech.

"She's gay, dude. Anyway, he's kinda best-friend material, I think, and I ain't messing that up, for sure."

"Really? Dean Winchester making friends on his first day at College? Who'd've thought?" Sam snarked, chuckling at Dean's muttered 'Bitch'. "Meet anyone else?"

"Meh, guy called Benny borrowed a pen in my Engineering class, he seemed alright, from the South, might see if he wants to hang out. My roommate's a total nerd, _Kevin Tran_ , we've only been here a couple'a days and he's already called his Mom three times a day. He seems alright though, I guess. Better than one of those shit-heads who like to play fucking *Drum and Bass* until three in the fucking morning," Dean explained, smiling as Sammy's sigh. "What?"

"I knew you'd be such a party-pooper. Dean. It's College. Of course there's going to be Drum and Bass until three in the morning, it's a given, get over it... What else, huh? What about English?"

"Ugh!" Dean groaned. "It's worse than I thought," he said before thinking it through.

"What d'you mean? The Professor didn't make you read anything out on the first day did he?" Sam questioned, his tone worrisome. He'd witnessed many of Dean's panic attacks before.

"Nah, the Prof was fine, just some of my classmates got on my nerves."

"Why's that?"

"Uh..." Dean said, closing his eyes and thinking back to the gigantic distraction that was Mystery man. "Just got some real douche-canoes who were always laughing _way_ to loud with their fucking $200 squeaky clean sneakers up on the desks," he sighed, wondering if mentioning the real cause of Dean angst would be worth the hassle.

"Dean?" Sam said, obviously not for the first time.

"Huh?" he replied, dumbly.

"I asked if that was all that's bothering you, because it seems like something pretty easy to ignore, but seeing as though you just blanked out for twenty seconds I'm thinking there's something else on your mind..." Sam explained.

Dean sighed.

Why was his brother such a fucking smart-ass.

"Or, is it a some _one_?" he tagged on the end.

A smart-ass who knew Dean *way* too well.

"Guy comes into English in the most blindingly awful sweater, and beat up sneakers, a fucking _shoulder_ bag. He trips up the stairs, sit right down in front of me, and I swear to God, Sammy, I couldn't for the life of me keep my eyes off of him for ten Goddamn seconds."

He groaned as Sam's laughter.

"It's not fucking funny, Sammy!"

" _Dean's got a cru-ush, Dean's got a cru-ush!_ " he sang, laughing at his brother's misfortune. "He hot, or what?"

"Man, you have no idea."

  
He had class again the next day, and when he got there, Mystery Man was already seated, looking down at his laptop as he alternated between clicking and typing.

Dean was staring so hand he walked into one of the tables.

  
The next lesson didn't go much better.

They'd been tasked with reading the first five chapters of _The Reluctant Fundamentalist_ over the two day gap before their Friday lesson, and while Dean had done it, making notes of his ideas, as always, he was completely lost in class. So distracted by Mystery Man that twenty minutes into the lesson, and completely at a loss as to what that were discussing, Dean leaned forward, copying the methodical -- and, thankfully, large -- notes that displayed themselves on Mystery Man's screen.

He managed to catch up and stay on track for the next half and hour, but the last five minutes were completely lost to those stupid fucking curls.

  
He should have changed seats. He knew this. Sam knew this. Yet, he hadn't.

  
He managed. All throughout the Fall, Winter and Spring terms, he managed. Barely.

Dean only managed to manage because Mystery Man who he'd discovered was called _Castiel Novak_ by searching through the College database Charlie had hacked not three weeks into the Fall term, took very good notes, and so all Dean had to do, was read the books, copy Castiel's notes, and go over them in the safety of his own dorm-room when class was finished.

Summer term though. Dean wouldn't be able to survive.

He'd been fine all of those months because Castiel had obviously _vowed_ to wear layers. Sweaters, coats, scarves, hats, more sweaters, even *more* sweaters, but, when the Summer term rolled around, that vow had obviously _changed_.

The first lesson back about Spring Break, Castiel came in in a fucking tee-shirt.

And, yeah, that seemed inconspicuous enough, but Dean hadn't noticed until then how much Castiel moved. Stretching this way and that, scratching his neck and cracking his back. And, to make it worse, the tee-shirt of _obviously_ too small.

Dean couldn't comprehend the amount of skin on show. The hair, which had slowly been getting longer and longer of the course of the year, was tucked half-heartedly behind one ear, letting the right-side hang down over his glasses as he typed furiously on the keyboard in front of him. The curl was stronger now. His hair falling in odd and unpredictable swirls around his ear, curling almost directly upwards as it reached the base of his skull.

Dean wanted to touch _so_ bad.

But, no. He had to sit behind the guy as he stretched and typed and fiddled with the dark strands and tapped on his desk and leant back in his chair and hummed under his breath and--

God!

He couldn't take it anymore!

  
It was the last week of class before they were let off to study for their Exams.

Dean was furiously scrambling to keep up with Castiel's typing when Chuck called for a five minute break.

He breathed a sigh of relief.

It gave him enough time to finish copying the notes and check over them quickly before the class resumed.

It all made sense, themes, ideas, questions, context. The last line though, had him sweating.

_I know you're reading this._

He flung himself back in his seat, dislodging him backpack from it's perch on the leg on his chair.

The snort of laughter that made it's way from Castiel was in _no_ way endearing.

The class restarted. Dean fought to calm himself, hands sweating and heart pounding. Before he knew it, he'd fucking missed more of Chuck's speech and -- for fuck's sake -- he had to peak back over Castiel's shoulder and quickly copy what he'd missed.

But, Castiel wasn't typing. He was reclined in his seat, hands tapping a beat on his jean-clad knees. On the screen were five words. Highlighted.

_Want to go out sometime?_

Next to it was a phone number.

He let out a hysterical little chuckle to himself, checking the clock to see they only had a couple of minutes left. He pulled out his phone, copied in the number and sat there, thumbs idle, trying to think of what to say.

In the end, he settled with something simple.

_hell yes._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! - D


End file.
